Dûrfîn
by AredhelWD
Summary: AU. This is the story of an Elf who was supposed to die. Instead he spent long years as a captive in Angband, slowly loosing his sanity. Now, in the Third Age, Sauron is returning. And he has found a Silmaril. Can an amnesiac Elf recover his memories in time to defeat the Dark Lord? CURRENTLY BEING REVISED.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I am not Tolkien. He was he greatest writer who ever lived, I am merely an awed reader of his works. None of the characters or places in this - unless I invent any - are mine.

 **Elvish:** I know, my Sindarin and Quenya are atrocious! Please don't murder me! *Hides behind shield* ahem. Anyway, Linda is Quenya for beautiful, and Man eneth is meant to mean who are you/what is your name? Literally it means what name?

 **Please Read and Review!**

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It was always dark. Elf shivered in the cold occasionally, but he was so used to it that it hardly bothered him anymore. It was the darkness that frightened him. It was filled with invisible, intangible horrors. Once he had almost seen the big bat woman, and had been terrified for a long time, certain that she had come to hurt him.

No one had actually hurt Elf in a long time. Seriously hurt him, at least. Dim memories of darker times shifted in the back of his head like massive beasts, waiting to pounce. Elf clutched his knees, watching the darkness suspiciously. He had to keep an eye on it, otherwise it might sneak up on him while he wasn't looking.

No one had come to feed him in a long time. At least, he thought that it was a long time. Elf didn't have any objective way of measuring time. The very idea was foreign to him. He did know that his stomach was telling him to feed it, but it usually was anyway.

Feeling behind him, Elf shifted back into a corner of the dark room, suddenly overcome by a terrifying thought. There was dark behind him too! It could be plotting anything!

He felt much more secure with his back firmly planted against the damp stone. He stared fixedly at the dark, hardly blinking. Someone needed to watch it.

A sound caught his attention. There were always sounds. Shrieks, wails, harsh voices, rumbles and groans. This was different. He couldn't place it. There was nothing like it in the store of sounds he had heard. He cocked his head, trying to hear the sound better. It sounded vaguely like a roar. A roar, yes. That was odd. Very, very odd.

He had never heard a roar before, in as long as he could remember. He knew that there was a place outside the dark, he had caught glimpses of it when the door was opened on a light place outside. That must be where the sounds were coming from. He nodded, pleased with this deduction. Now he could go back to watching the dark.

But the sound wouldn't leave him alone. It got louder and louder, and now he could distinguish other things inside the roar. Clashes, and shouts. Shouts in voices like the ones that he sometimes heard from outside, ones like his own. They cried in a beautiful language, one that he couldn't begin to understand, but which filled him with pleasure whenever he heard it. Spurred on by the cries, Elf let out his own exclamation. " _Linda!_ "

His voice, he noticed with displeasure, was not beautiful like the ones he heard. He was still pouting in annoyance when he heard the clashing and shouting grow extremely close, and the door to the light fell open. Elf stared as an Orc fell in with the door, a strange stick protruding from his chest. Blood flowed freely from the area around the stick. Hesitant and afraid, Elf got to his feet and went to the dead Orc. He touched the blood where it pooled on the floor. It stuck to his fingers and glistened red. Elf heard a sound from behind him, a creak, but he ignored it. The dead Orc was far more fascinating. He had never seen a dead Orc before.

" _Man eneth?_ " Said a voice behind Elf. One of the beautiful voices. Elf looked round, curious to see what kind of creature could have such a beautiful voice.

A tall being stood behind him, clad in strange pieces of shining stuff, with dark hair bound up on its head. And with a naked blade in its left hand. Stained with blood.

Elf leapt to his feet and scuttled backwards, into the dark. He knew about blades. They were frightening things. Things Orcs used to hurt you with. Elf shrank back into the dark, pressing himself against a wall. "Don't hurt Elf!" He whimpered.

The creature muttered something in its beautiful voice, and then threw something shining into the room.

Elf heard its footsteps receding, and, after a long wait, finally plucked up courage to examine the thing it had thrown in. He slid away from the wall, cautious still. Light from the outside glinted on the thing. It shone. It was long and thin. And burnished. Elf knelt down beside it, and suddenly recoiled with a hiss. It was a blade. Stained red with blood. The thing must have left it here to hurt him!

Elf scurried back to the darkness where he could hide. He crouched there for a long time, watching the blade. It didn't move.

After a while he cautiously approached it again. When it did not strike him he suddenly leapt forward and clasped his hand around the hilt. Still it did not turn in his hand and rend him. Elf stared at it, slowly noticing everything about it. It was a beautiful silver colour, save where it was spattered with red blood. It glowed faintly blue over the metallic colour, shimmering with chill beauty. The handle was brown, it fit to his hand. Elf turned the blade over in his hand, marvelling at its beauty. It glinted in the light from outside, and suddenly a new thought struck him. He looked out at the corridor. Yes, it was still empty, except for the dead Orc.

Elf looked at the blade again. He clutched it tightly in his hand. Then he stepped over the Orc, and out into the light.


	2. Esgaroth

Esgaroth

 **Quenya:** There is only one Quenya word in this chapter: Aulëonna. It means Dwarves.

 **Please R & R!**

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It was a chill morning in autumn. Many people went about wrapped in furs to keep out the bite of the cold. In this weather, the Elf was almost the only person in the whole of Laketown who was sweating. But there was a good reason for that. Dûrfîn the Elf was the smith of Esgaroth. The blazing heat of white hot metal and of the furnace heated to a blaze by the bellows his assistant pumped, all gave him a very good reason to be sweating.

Today he was repairing a ploughshare, for one of the families who farmed for a living rather than fished. It had blunted on a large stone, and its front end had bent slightly, so that it no longer worked correctly.

Swinging his hammer, Dûrfîn stretched to his full height and then brought the heavy thing down on the dented part of the metal. Sparks scattered everywhere, flying across the room, the metal made a protesting noise and straightened a little. The Elf looked at it critically, his head on one side, and then swung the hammer again. The metal bent a little further down towards the flat, and more sparks flew everywhere. It was nearly flat now. Two more blows and Dûrfîn wasn't exactly pleased with it, but he thought it would do. Taking his tongs he gripped the metal firmly and plunged it into cold water. Living on a lake certainly had its advantages. Dûrfîn didn't need a trough, there was simply a rectangular hole cut in the floor of the room. Steam erupted from the lake water, it hissed and bubbled.

After a minute or so, when the steam was dissipating, Dûrfîn removed the metal from the water and laid it against the left wall. Its owners could come to collect it later.

"What else?" He asked his assistant, who, aside from pumping the bellows, was also his encyclopaedia of work that needed to be done. The boy paused to think, then said "Nothing."

Dûrfîn nodded. His arms ached now, he had been swinging that hammer since the morning.

"Boy can go now." He said, and then began to tidy up his tools onto their hooks as the boy scampered away. He put out the fire and gathered up his pieces of scrap metal, putting them in their box. Then he stepped out of his smithy and closed and locked the door. His eye fell on the Lonely Mountain, standing tall and majestic over Esgaroth, and he muttered under his breath " _Aulëonna!_ "

The Dwarves frightened him. He had been in Esgaroth for over a hundred years now. At first when he had come, fleeing out of the East soon after the Dragon's attack on Dale and the Lonely Mountain, he had wandered the streets of the frightened township of Esgaroth, without a penny in his pocket, and no way of getting lodging or food, unless he relied on someone's charity.

Then he had passed the smithy. It had been worked by someone called Tharn, then. Tharn had been beating out a knife for his son, laboriously striking the steel to flatten it. It hadn't been going to be a brilliant knife, either. Dûrfîn could see the impurities in the metal, and the mistakes that the smith had made. He had always had an uncanny gift for smith craft, that he had never understood. He had watched silently for a while, and then, at last, could contain himself no longer. "Smith does it wrong!" He exclaimed.

Everyone stared at him, and one man in a long black coat said "Who are you to accuse our smith of not knowing his own craft?" The voice was undisguisedly hostile.

"Dûrfîn is a Noldo!" Said Dûrfîn. He had come to that conclusion after observing the Teleri, and hearing about the Vanyar. He was nothing like either.

"You don't look like a smith to me." Said the man, looking him up and down, seeing the ropy scars across the Elf's face and his thin frame, and hearing his hoarse voice.

"Let him try, and make a fool of himself!" Some one laughed. The smith wasn't exactly pleased to let an unknown Elf touch his tools, but he agreed in the end, when his knife was finished.

And so Dûrfîn entered the smithy. He took the tools, and chose some steel from the pile of scrap metal that the smith kept. And he began.

He heated and twisted and hammered, he cooled it and repeated the process. Over and over again, until his knife was finished. And it was undoubtedly better than the smith's. Leaf bladed in the style of all Elven weapons, it shone and glistened in the light. Indeed, it almost seemed to make its own light.

Everyone stared at it in amazement, and Dûrfîn felt smug, although he couldn't help noticing where he could have made it even better.

Someone fetched the Master, who compared the two blades, looked at Dûrfîn's hungry face, and immediately offered him a bargain. He would do smith work for the Master, and in return the Master would give him food and lodgings. Dûrfîn, who needed both, had accepted.

For eighty odd years he worked for the Masters of Laketown, and came to realise that he had let himself in for virtual slavery. He was well fed enough here, but if her ever decided to leave, he would once more be a penniless waif, and his features didn't exactly speak for him. His face had three knotted white scars diagonally across it as though they had been inflicted by a gigantic whip. One crossed the left corner of his mouth, one just missed his right eye and scored through his eyebrow, and one ran across his crooked nose. These scars - and others that didn't show on his face - continued on down his body. One marred the palm of his left had so that he had difficulty holding things with it.

And the the Dwarves had come back. Bard had killed Smaug the Dragon, hitting him with the last of his arrows in his one vulnerable spot.

Dûrfîn remembered the water in which he had almost drowned. He couldn't swim, but neither could he walk through fire. The water had steamed and hissed and bubbled, like it did now when he cooled his work. He had clung tightly onto a piece of wood from the town, and he had kicked away from the blazing fire. But when the Dragon had crashed into the lake, the surge had sucked the wood from his fingers, and left him floundering. It was luck alone that a boat had happened to be near, and the people upon it had helped him in.

During the Battle of the Five Armies Dûrfîn had assiduously avoided the Wood Elves. Simply enough, he didn't like being with other Elves because they always looked at him with pity.

Alright, Men did that too, but they would also look at him with fear, and with condescension. And awe. Dûrfîn could dazzle them with his odd skill in the smithy, where he could not dazzle the Elves.

He had used the blade that he had preserved with care all these long years. An Elf had tossed it to him in Angband, and Elf who was a member of the army of the Valar. He had it because he would not come with the Elf, he had been to frightened, but the Elf did not want to leave him without any means to defend himself. He had kept that blade all these years. It was a blade from Gondolin, for it glistened blue when enemies were present. It was a shortsword, small and serviceable. Dûrfîn was fairly competent with it.

When Laketown was rebuilt, Dûrfîn said to the new Master "Dûrfîn is not going to stay with the old agreement. If the people of Esgaroth want his services, they must pay him for them."

The new Master agreed. And for a whole human generation the Men of Laketown were proud of their smith. He might sound odd, and talk a bit funny. He might be an Elf, but he could do the best metalwork outside of Erebor. And that was saying something.

But recently the Dwarves had taken it as an affront to their pride that the Men of Esgaroth had a smith who was an Elf, when there was a whole mountain of Dwarves next door. Whenever the Dwarves ran into Laketown Men, they always seemed to be showing off their craftsmanship and ability to them, and that frightened Dûrfîn. He did not want to be wandering out in the wild again.

Suddenly, as he watched, the whole top of the Lonely Mountain burst into flame. Pieces of it flew in all directions, flaming and red, and there was a deafening explosion. Dûrfîn had just enough sense to throw himself down flat before the shock wave reached Laketown. As pieces of wood began to fall on him and a deafening wind filled his ears, he thought he saw something black and sinuous dive into the smoking ruins of the mountain's crest.


	3. Ilumírë

**Quenya:** Back to my awful Quenya again! Okay, _úlairë_ means Nazgûl, or black rider. The longish bit, _Moringotto! Ilumírëi! Fëanaró alahessa!_ Means, or at least, I intend it to mean - my words strung together aren't good :( - Morgoth! Silmarils! Fëanor is not dead!

 **I hope you like the chapter. They're all a bit short, I know, but this seemed like the logical place to stop. ill try and make them longer :) Please Read and Review!**

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The explosion was over almost as quickly as it had begun. The damage to Laketown, was actually less than it had seemed at the time of the explosion. The roofs had been blown off most of the houses, true, but the destruction was nothing like what had occurred when the dragon attacked. Several people had been wounded, however, and Dûrfîn was glad that he was not one of them.

People wanted him to stay and help put the town back together, tend the wounded. But there were plenty of other people to do that, and Dûrfîn's mind was filled with that glimpse he had had, of a dark, sinuous shape swooping out of the sky to the burning exploded crown of the Lonely Mountain. What had it been? Was it still there? Had it set off the explosions? His mind was full of unanswered questions, and so, quietly, he climbed into a small boat and began to row his way up to the mouth of the River Running.

The river water was dark with ash and mud, although happily it did not seem to have gained any new rapids that Dûrfîn did not know about.

As he progressed closer to the mountain, he began to hear the fire. And the dwarves. He heard both deep bellows of anger – were they fighting something? – and voices in ordinary tone, as well as not a few moans. The damage here would have been far more extensive than at Laketown.

At the gate where the river flowed into the mountain, Dûrfîn was accosted by a group of Dwarves carrying large axes and looking ready to use them. One had a cut on his forehead, which bled into his left eye.

"What are you doing here, Elf?!" Demanded one, with a long black beard and violet hood and cloak, stained with debris from the explosion.

"Dûrfîn came to investigate the explosion." He said, standing up in the boat.

"Well you can turn around and go straight back again." Said the Dwarf, his tone unmistakably hostile.

Dûrfîn didn't want to get into a fight he knew that he would lose. "Will you tell me what caused the explosion?" He asked.

At that moment their came a roar from the mountain, and with it a high pitched shriek that made the Elf shiver right down to his bones. He knew what that shriek was made by. He remembered them from the Second Age.

" _Úlairë!_ " He cried, reverting in his excitement to his first language.

"Get lost Elf!" Shouted the Dwarves, and shoved at the boat with their weapons. Dûrfîn fell over with the sudden jerk, but he was up again quickly. He began to row the boat away, but he shot an angry glare at the Dwarves. And then he saw the black thing claw its way out of the top of the mountain, and spread batlike wings. It looked like a small black dragon, but with only two legs. And seated on its back was a dark figure, clad in black robes from head to toe. Its Ringwraith rider. It raised its right hand upon high and shrieked again, and Dûrfîn saw a globe of beautiful white light glowing in its hand. His eyes fixed on the light, and couldn't leave it. He lurched to his feet as the foul beast took off into the air, and found himself to be crying words, and he didn't understand what he meant by them, or why he spat them like poisonous things from his lips. " _Moringotto! Ilumírëi! Fëanaró alahessa!_ "

He found himself running after the beast, leaping from his boat and running across the ground, hardly seeing where he was going and somehow avoiding obstacles the whipped by him as half seen blurs. He was hardly what could be called conscious anymore. He simply felt a driving need, to take that beautiful thing from the Nazgûl and have it for his own.

He ran until blackness overcame him and he couldn't remember anything else.

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He seemed to awake as if from a deep sleep. Dûrfîn rubbed his eyes, blinking in the soft green light. Where was he? Last he recalled, he had seen – he sat bolt upright, all sleepiness gone. The Arkenstone. That was what the Ringwraith had taken. No doubt of it. But was the Arkenstone a Silmaril? He remembered his strange, insane behaviour after seeing it, remembered the words that had fallen unbidden from his lips. Where had the words come from? He had thought he had shaken off all remnants of the insane fits that had gripped him from time to time for many years after – for as long as he could recall in fact. But that must be a remnant from the dark days of Angband! Fëanor is not dead, what kind of nonsense is that? He had died thousands of years ago, in the First Age, killed by his wounds, inflicted by the burning whip of Gothmog. And the Arkenstone . . . Dûrfîn shivered, recalling its incredible beauty, and the mind blanking effect it had had on him. Perhaps he had seen a Silmaril once, before Angband?

He got to his feet. He should get out of this wood, anyway, get back to Laketown. And then he found he couldn't walk. That wasn't precisely true, he could walk, but only in one general direction. Steadily away from Esgaroth. Southwards. That was the way the Nazgûl had gone, the way to Mordor. Dûrfîn felt the tug pulling him that way. What could possibly do that to him?

He tried running, creeping, ducking and jumping. None of it worked. And the force that was preventing him from going to Laketown was still telling him to go South.

"Alright!" He cried at last. "I'll go South! But I need to get things from Esgaroth first!"

Instantly the force evaporated. Dûrfîn shook himself and started walking towards Laketown. Something inside him quailed at the immensity of what had happened to him could mean. Who had he been before he had lost his memory? The answer to that question frightened him more than he cared to admit.

Back in Laketown everyone was busy repairing everything. No one noticed a silent Elf return to the own and enter his house, where he packed clothes, food and a tinderbox away in a bag, and put on a long grey cloak. If any of them saw him as he left, it was the last they ever saw of their odd smith.


	4. Anduin

**Quenya:** there's only one sentance in Quenya in this chapter! Phew! It's _Alahaiya sí_ , meaning Not far now.

 **This whole chapter is a bit actiony for me. The next one will be better! It sort of needs to happen though, I hope you like it!**

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Dûrfîn had been traveling for several weeks now, and had learned how to circumvent and twist this driving force somewhat. It wanted him to take the straightest possible path to the Black Land, or wherever in that general direction it was taking him. That meant wading through seas of brambles, marching straight through rapids, and dashing his brains out by leaping off cliffs. But Dûrfîn found that if he explained why he wanted to take a better route to it, reasonably and logically, it would allow him to take such a route. It didn't seem to understand any of the basic laws of physics, unless they were explained to it.

As for Dûrfîn himself, he wasn't happy to be making this trip, and was certain it would end in doom. However he had no choice in the matter, and took to cursing the person he had been before, who must have had something to do with this. He just tried to avoid thinking about who he had been before. After all, how many elves were there, alive in the First Age, with some sort of compulsion triggered by glowing white jewels? And Dûrfîn didn't want to be a Fëanorian, didn't even want to consider the idea, although it nagged uncomfortably in the back of his mind.

An arrow whipped past his ear, and Dûrfîn threw himself flat, cursing himself for not looking what he was walking into. Fronds of bracken waved over his head, hiding him from view unless his assailant was close, which seemed unlikely, as he had used an arrow. Dûrfîn slid his shortsword out from its sheath and held it in his right hand, ready to fight for his life.

He heard the sound of heavy feet on the greenery, the rasp of weapons leaving sheaths, and harsh voices speaking what could only be the Black Tongue. Orcs. He tightened his grip on his blade, ready to spring up when they came near.

A voice, now speaking the Common Tongue with an atrocious accent, called out "Come out little Elf! We know you're there!"

Dûrfîn's heart boiled with hatred for these creatures. He remembered all too clearly their prevalence in Angband, that dark and sinister place, he remembered later encounters with them, their most unpleasant habits and the things he had seen them do. He shuffled a little way into the bracken, moving silently as only an Elf can. He heard them crash past him, and discover the crushed stalks where he had first dived into the shielding plants. One gave out orders, and the others answered in a clearly subservient tone. Dûrfîn picked up that much, although they once again spoke their own foul language. He risked a glimpse above the plants. Six of them, more than a lone Elf could handle at once, with only with one shortsword. He would have to pick them off one by one. And sure enough, they were splitting up to search for him. He felt the force tugging at him, trying to make him go South. But for the moment he ignored it. He had to deal with these Orcs first.

The one who ordered waited by the crushed stalks, muttering to himself. He was a typical Orc, bowlegged, ape armed and hairy, with the red eye of Sauron painted on his shield. But Dûrfîn could still see with a faint feeling of revulsion where the Orc's ancestors had been Elves. His ears were pointed, like Dûrfîn's, as was his face. His lips and teeth, however, diverged sharply. Where an Elf's face could easily break into a mischievous grin, the Orc's mouth contained sharp canines, and his lips were thick and blubbery. The only grin he could give was one of malice. Dûrfîn tensed and readied himself. Now! The Orc was no longer looking in his direction. The Elf emerged from his cover and walked towards the Orc. It was very easy to slide his blade into the creature's back and slay him almost silently. All the Orc managed was a gurgle.

Dûrfîn let the dead Orc slide off his sword and wiped it on the bracken to clean it of the thing's blood. Good. Now he had to find the five others. He couldn't risk their being on his trail.

He left the dead Orc on the ground, and, after a minute's thought, vanished once more beneath the undergrowth.

It wasn't long before he heard heavy boots, coming this way. Another Orc. Dûrfîn didn't dare allow him to see the body of the other Orc, for then he would shout. The Elf had only one course of action, or so he thought. He slid out of the bracken and found himself staring into the face of a new Orc, one who had not been in the original party. This Orc was taller than the others, more thickset, and less apish. His build, in fact, looked almost human. And there, daubed upon the shield that he carried, was a new device. A white hand.

This Orc stood on the other side of the clearing, his shield half lifted, his crooked sword in his hand. His eyes met Dûrfîn's and his lips curved into a smile. He began to run across the clearing towards the Elf, sword lifted high.

Dûrfîn lifted his own sword to meet the Orc's charge, and braced his legs for the collision. Even though he was not weak, the huge blow shook him slightly.

He gave a blow of his own, which the Orc parried with his shield, then twisted aside, when the Orc counterattacked.

But he still hadn't wiped the smile of the Orc's face. His teeth set in anger, Dûrfîn lunged forward and tried to plunge his blade into the Orc's chest, twisting at the last minute so that in fact he aimed for the right arm.

He struck the Orc's shoulder, and blood welled from the wound. But the Orc still smiled, and swung at him with, if anything, renewed vigour, feinting with his sword, while in fact ramming his shield's sharp rim into Dûrfîn's right ankle, almost toppling the Elf to the ground.

This was no ordinary Orc. He was bigger, faster, and stronger. To begin with, Dûrfîn had underestimated him, and that started him off on the wrong foot. He was a pretty good fighter, most Elves are, as they have had thousands of years in which to hone their skills. And that paid off.

The Orc was stronger and bigger than he was, but Dûrfîn was faster and lighter than the Orc, he swept his blade in and slashed the Orc's hip deep, making the creature bellow with pain. He retaliated, long hooked blade sweeping into Dûrfîn's left arm.

The Elf hissed in answer, and with a lithe twist, ducked under the Orc's guard and stabbed him, deep in the abdomen. The Orc died.

Dûrfîn stepped back, panting. He had a bleeding wound in his arm, and something was wrong with his ankle where the shield had struck it. His boot seemed unpleasantly wet and sticky.

He shook his head to clear it. Right now he needed to get out of here. The other Orc's would surely have heard the now dead Orc's bellow, they would be coming back. And Dûrfîn knew that he would leave a wonderful trail for them, smelling strongly of blood.

The Anduin. That was the place he needed to go. Dûrfîn sucked in his breath and began to run. No point in trying to be quiet now. He sped through the bracken, leaving a trail clearly visible through the broken stems.

Pain lanced through his wounded ankle with every step. Dûrfîn was very sure that it wasn't wise to run on a wound like that, but he had very little choice. He clenched his hand tightly around the blade he still held, and thought for a moment of the early days in Angband. He had endured more then than he had ever had to do in all the rest of his life. A mere ankle wound couldn't stop him!

He felt the force bring him up short with a crack. He could almost hear it screaming "South!" at him.

"Not now! I've got Orcs on my tail! If I go South I'll die, and then I'll never manage to do what you want me to do!"

The force gave way, rippling aside, and Dûrfîn ran on. He glanced back behind him as he crested a little hill. Yes, there were the Orcs. Five of them. An done was drawing a bow.

He ran down the other side of the hill, panting. They couldn't fire as long as he kept hills between him and them. And the Brown Lands were full of hills.

And now he heard the sound of water. The Great River. Yes, he could hide in the Anduin. And they would loose his scent.

A burst of speed took him over the next hill. His ankle was really hurting now, and threatening to give way. He felt it wobble with each step.

" _Alahaiya sí_." He murmured to his foot, willing it to hold him until the river.

And there it was! The river, glistening sliver below him. Dûrfîn almost sobbed with relief, but it wasn't over yet. A short run took him to the bank, and then he waded out into the water.

As soon as it was deep enough he ducked into the water and swam. There were some reeds a little way upriver. If he got one of them, he could make a breathing tube and swim across the river . . .

He swam above water until he spotted the Orcs cresting the hill. Then he took a deep breath and ducked his head under. He could hardly see anything in the murk down here! Mud and weed filled his vision. His eyes stung from the particles that drifted into them. As he swam, Dûrfîn sincerely hoped that there weren't large predatory fish out in the deeper areas.

There! The stalks of reeds, reaching up through the water like thin brown fingers. He snapped one, and his lungs bursting, transferred one end to his mouth, keeping the other above the surface.

Air! Sweet, beautiful, clean air rushed into his lungs. Breathing easily now, Dûrfîn turned to swim away from the bank. Behind him he heard splashes as the Orcs searched the water for him.

Behind him, too, red blood oozed from his wounded foot and dissipated into the muddy water.

The current tugged at him. As did the ever present Southern compulsion. The sounds of the Orcs faded as he got out into the deeper areas of the great river, and began to seriously wonder, as his foot and arm began to fail him, if he really could swim all the way across the Anduin with a wounded arm and foot.


	5. Thought

**I wrote really short chapters, I know :(. But I did two, so hopefully that makes up for it! By the way, my idea about Maiar leaving debris behind when they switch forms is completely non canonical, it is totally my own idea, although I had it in mind before I wrote this story. I always imagined Maiar to be less powerful than Valar, but basically the same race otherwise.**

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It was so nice just to lie still and let the world go on without him. It was pleasant here, soft if not warm.

There was something lapping at his toes, something he didn't like. It was wet and cold.

With a great sigh Dûrfîn realised he was going to have to open his eyes and find out exactly where he was and how it was that he was still alive.

He heaved his lids open and pushed himself up into a sitting position. How long had he been here? His arm didn't complain at all. He glanced at it. It was no longer wounded, merely a white scar. Yes, Elves had strong and fast powers of healing, but – ? Where was he, anyway? He looked around. He was sitting on a sandy beach. The thing lapping at his toes was the water of the Anduin, while behind him lay a patch of scrub, and then grassland beyond. Rohan, it must be.

Now he looked at his foot. It gave him no pain, none. With trepidation he stood up. No, it still didn't hurt. He sat down again, and pulled off his boot. There was a white scar on his ankle, that was all. Dûrfîn sat and stared at it for a while. Someone powerful was messing with him. Who had the power to reach out and touch him here? And, indeed, how could he still be alive after he actually remembered sinking in the River, his lungs starved for air but his arm and foot refusing to obey him.

There was an answer. Whose domain had he been drowning in?

But why should the Lord of Waters even notice one Elf drowning in one river, even though that river was the Great River? And, if he noticed, why should he bother to save and heal said Elf? Hundreds of people drowned. Why had Dûrfîn been rescued?

There was an answer to that, too, and Dûrfîn couldn't say that he liked it. He must have some _purpose_ in the scheme of things, some reason the Valar, or at least Ulmo, wanted him to stay alive.

He put his boot back on. "Dûrfîn needs to think about things before he goes any further."

Who had he been before he lost his memory? There could be no more avoiding of that question. It probably had vital bearing on why he was still alive.

To begin with, he must be either Fëanor, or one of his sons. He had little doubt anymore that his tugging force was the Oath. What else could it be?

He couldn't be Maglor or Maedhros, as Maglor was still around, and Maedhros had committed suicide _after_ Morgoth was defeated. As a matter of fact, Dûrfîn vaguely remembered it happening. Everyone had talked about the theft of the last two Silmarils in Middle Earth, and their subsequent fates.

Neither could he be Amrod or Amras, for they had died fighting other Elves. There was no chance for Morgoth to capture either of them. What about Celegorm and Curufin? No, they had died together, fighting other Elves again. Caranthir? He had died in Doriath too.

That left Fëanor himself. He had, supposedly, died of his wounds after engaging in single combat with Gothmog, and had disintegrated to ashes upon death. But now other Elf had ever died that way. But, or so Dûrfîn had heard, Maiar – who were messier than the Valar in just about everything, left debris behind when they changed bodies. Dûrfîn ran his hand over the knotted scars that crisscrossed his face and body. Could they have been inflicted by a flaming whip? That might explain his voice, too, if some fire had gone down his throat . . . And then there was his uncanny gift for smithcraft . . . Suppose – just suppose – a shape shifting Maia had taken Fëanor's place?

He wasn't sure he wanted to suppose that. Fëanor had been the cause of much pain and strife, that still echoed through the world today.

But he had done good things too, Dûrfîn reassured himself. The Tengwar, the Fëanorian lamps . . .

It wasn't certain, anyway. But Dûrfîn thought it was a pretty good guess. He got to his feet and looked down at the water. "Ulmo," He said, feeling foolish and hoping that the Lord of Waters could hear him. "Dûrfîn thanks you for saving his life. But he asks, for what reason? What task do you want him to do?"

The water still flowed by, undisturbed. Dûrfîn looked at it for a long minute, then turned away with a sigh. He hadn't really expected an answer. At any rate, it was pretty obvious what the Valar wanted him to do. If he really was Fëanor, and the Arkenstone really was a Silmaril, then he probably had to retrieve it, or at least prevent Sauron from using it for whatever he had in mind.

Which meant following the orders of the compelling force and going South. South, to Mordor, and Sauron. Dûrfîn shivered. He wanted to at least replenish his supplies before doing anything so dangerous, and at most acquire much better equipment than he had now. Rohan was no place for buying things, he would have to go to Minas Tirith, and hope his Erebor coins held good there.

But perhaps he could get a horse in Rohan, to speed his journey? Dûrfîn was not averse to this idea, so he turned resolutely away from the river, and began to walk towards Rohan.

When the force stopped him, he explained "Dûrfîn is getting better prepared. He will die if he goes into Mordor like this!"

As he had expected the pressure let up, and he strode easily into the grass of Rohan.


	6. Interlude

**Khamûl is really the name of the Lord of Dol Guldor, and is actually the Nazgûl from the Shire. I mean to try and give the Ringwraiths their own characters in this story - they didn't really get much attention that way in Tolkien's books.**

 **I hope you like the Mordorian glimpse, anyway!**

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 **A.N. - Edited July 26th to remove references to Sauron being a giant eye.**

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Uncomfortable with the burning heat of the gem, that was reaching out to hurt him even through the triple boxes he had encased it in, the Lord of the Nazgûl climbed the steps of the great tower of Barad Dûr, taking the thing that had been crafted in Mount Doom to his master.

His invisible feet clinked as he climbed the steps, or rather, the armour encasing them clinked. Behind him came his second in command, Khamûl, also clinking. Khamûl had an annoying fascination with little trinkets, with he hung about his person, so that he clinked even more than the Witch-king.

The Witch-king himself had been the Nazgûl who tore the Silmaril from Erebor on his masters orders, and who had personally watched over its setting into a ring. He would rather have delegated these duties to Khamûl, but the Lord of Dol Guldor found it extremely hard to function in the light of the sun, and had actually let the Ringbearer slip past him in the Shire many times, for which fault he was out of favour with Sauron at the moment.

Ah, the top. The Lord of the Nazgûl stepped out into Sauron's huge chamber, the walls all made of glass so that the Dark Lord could look out on Middle Earth and plan his campaigns. And, in the centre of the chamber, stold the Dark Lord himself, his back turned to the approaching Nazgûl.

"You have it?" The voice slithered insidiously into his ears, soft like a snake sliding over grass, but also filled with hidden menace.

"Yesss, my Lord Mairon. It isss made."

"Good. Give it here."

Breathing in deep, the Witch-king opened the first box, then the middle one, and finally the inner one.

White light glowed from the Silmaril inside, the beautiful gem that seemed almost to pulse with life.

The Lord of the Nazgûl shielded his face from the unpleasant glare, and behind him he heard Khamûl hiss at the painful light. Then he reached out and carefully picked up the ring into which the stone was set, not the gem itself. Holding tightly to the metal, he walked across the room and held out the ring to his master.

Sauron turged, and the two Nazgûl saw his form, like to a tall Elf, black haired and fell faced. The Lord of the Rings reached out his hand to take the ring. He slid the ring onto his right index finger and sighed with pleasure. "Ah," He breathed, although that word cannot do justice to what the Dark Lord really said. "Mine at last! A creation far more powerful than my foolish One Ring. With this Silmaril, my dear Nazgûl, the ambitions of Evil can at last be realised! The foolish men of Gondor will fall first, but they shall be only the start! With the power of a Silmaril, I can conquer all Middle Earth! Melkor, had no idea what he was wearing in his crown! Why, a Silmaril is like to a Ring of Power, containing a part of the power of both Fëanor and Yavanna! With such power I cannot lose!" And the Dark Lord began to laugh. Quietly at first, but then louder and louder until his mirth shook the tower and all of Khamûl's annoying little trinkets jingled at once.


	7. Ólórin

**I am really sorry I didn't update this earlier, but I was flat out of inspiration, and was working on a Dune 7 fanfic that is so terrible I won't post it here! Alright, I don't think there are plot holes, and it feels better to me than the stuff KJA wrote, but it doesn't feel like Frank Herbert's stuff either. Anyway! Stop waffling!**

 **Quenya:** Only one word this time, and I've used it before. Ularië, meaning Nazgûl or Ringwraith.

 **I know now my timing is a bit off, but the story doesn't really work otherwise *sighs* so, unless it isn't obvious, this is currently happening just after Gandalf has broken Saruman's staff at Isengard, but before Pippin has looked into the palantír. Hope you like the story! Oh, and, this is a bit late, but thanks to the guest who reviewed!**

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Gandalf the Grey, also known as Mithrandír, prepared for sleep. After breaking Saruman's staff, he felt extremely tired and old. He had admired and liked Saruman, and now – Saruman was a mere shell of Curunír, the Maia he had been. He had lost everything good that he had had, everything.

He looked at the two Hobbits, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. The little Halflings were shaking out blankets, preparing their bedding. Gandalf and his Hobbit companions were sleeping a little way away from the rest of the Rohirrim, along with Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli.

Gandalf was just about to lie down when he noticed a group of the Riddermark heading towards them, Éomer at their head.

Éomer gave a short bow in deference to Gandalf, Aragorn and Legolas, then said "Théoden King has sent me to ask for your presence. A few days ago a patrol along our northeastern border picked up an Elf, who speaks bad Westron and is heavily scarred. He speaks of Silmarils and ringwraiths."

Gandalf felt a surge of worry. He got to his feet. "We shall indeed come, Éomer son of Éomund. And at once."

Together they headed to Théoden's tent, Gandalf worrying with every step what the Elf could mean. He had known, of course, that the Arkenstone was a Silmaril, he had seen all three together, both on Fëanor's brow, and when Morgoth had been defeated. But the implications of what might occur if Sauron could get his hands on a Silmaril, and if he were to know how to use it . . . They were very unpleasant.

Ducking into the tent, the Elf standing before Théoden under guard by three Men immediately caught his eye. Dressed in travel stained and torn clothes that despite everything managed to appear well made, his boots were plastered with mud, and an empty sheath hung at his hip. His hair was black and ragged, as if it had been trimmed short at his neck with a knife. Large knotted scars traversed his face, and Gandalf saw one cutting across the palm of his left hand. The Elf's head turned lightning fast as the newcomers entered, and his fiery green eyes met Gandalf's for a moment.

The ancient Maia recognised those eyes. He almost staggered in shock, but recovered himself. It couldn't be! It just couldn't!

"Ah, here you are." Said the King of Rohan. "I think you should hear what this Elf has to say."

'This Elf' said "You wish for Dûrfîn to repeat himself again?" and there was a rather heavy touch of impatience in his tone. His voice was hoarse, as though fire had burned his throat and left him with merely a husk of an Elf's normal clear notes.

"Yes, I do."

Dûrfîn turned to look at the newcomers once again. "Dûrfîn was smith at Laketown," He began. " _Úlairë_ came. What is your word? Dûrfîn is not good at this."

"Ringwraiths." Gandalf had never imagined Fëanor with a speech impediment, but then neither had he imagined him deigning to learn Westron, or admitting he was not equal to anything.

"You speak Quenya?" Asked Dûrfîn.

Gandalf nodded. "Yes."

Dûrfîn shifted into Quenya, and his speech immediately became far better, although there was still an element of his having to concentrate to speak of himself in the first person. " _That is good. A Ringwraith attacked Erebor. It had an – explosive weapon. It blew the top of the mountain off, and took the Arkenstone with it. The Arkenstone is Silmaril. Dû-I know that it is. It took it away. I came after it._ "

"Can you understand that?" Gimli asked. "He was always talking like that in Esgaroth."

"So you recognise him?" Asked Théoden. "That part of his story then at least is true."

"Dûrfîn tells all truth!" Said the Elf hotly.

Gandalf quickly explained what else Dûrfîn-Fëanor had said, and saw the faces of Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn become grave.

"What is a Silmaril?" Asked Merry.

Gandalf had quite forgotten the presence of the little Hobbits. "Later, Master Brandybuck," He said. "I will explain later."

Turning to Théoden he said "The situation is a grave one, Lord Théoden. I would speak with this Elf alone."

"Indeed, do Gandalf. What he says troubles me."

"How do we know that this Noldo is telling the truth?" Legolas demanded suddenly, showing a conservative flair that would have done his father proud. "Where can you find a heavily scarred Elf these days, unless in an Orcish throwback?"

Dûrfîn showed an explosion of true Fëanorian temper then. "How dare you?!" He demanded. "I saw you and your father at the Battle of the Five Armies! You both look more like Orcs than I ever could!"

His guards grabbed at his arms, and he subsided, although still angry. Legolas was about to give an angry answer, but Aragorn and Gimli quietened him.

Théoden, however, seemed to have been swayed by Legolas. "We really do know very little about you, Master Elf." He said.

The Elf looked pained. "Dûrfîn doesn't like to talk about it." He said.

"Do you want to gain our trust or not?" Théoden said reasonably.

Dûrfîn closed his eyes. "Dûrfîn cannot remember his past," He admitted. "Beyond the end of the First Age. He was – held captive by Morgoth," His eyes flashed open once more and he dealt a glare to Legolas. "That was where Dûrfîn got his scars, Teler!"

All eyes fell on Gandalf, who nodded. "I trust him." An idea was forming in his head. If Fëanor was still alive, then there might still be hope, for if the Silmarils still considered him their owner . . . But did they? And, oh Valar, if he remembered his past, would he want to help them?

There came a scream from outside, a terrible scream, and Merry cried "Pippin isn't here!"


	8. Nightmares

**Okay, hello again, thank you to everyone who followed and favourited this! It makes me feel very happy to know you liked my story enough to do that. :D**

 **It took me so long to update because although I had written this chapter and the next one for quite a while, I was wondering whether I should save the memory recovering for the climax, or not. I decided it's too traumatic for poor old Dûrfîn to have to cope with everything at once, so, here is this chapter! And the longest one yet, too!**

 **Quenya:** The only real Quenya that needs explaining is Dûrfîn's Quenya name, Morëfindë. It means exactly the same thing as Dûrfîn, he just uses it in Quenya. Both names can be used interchangeably. When text is written in italics, a Quenya conversation is going on.

* * *

It wasn't very clear to Dûrfîn what happened next. There was quite a lot of shouting and quick moving about. Dûrfîn's guards had hustled him away to a small tent where he was told to wait. And he did wait. For a little while. Then curiosity got the better of him, and pulling his hood up over his face he was just about to slide quietly under the edge of the tent when the flaps opened and Gandalf came in.

Dûrfîn span quickly to look at his visitor, and saw new lines of tiredness in the old man's face. "Fëanor," Said Gandalf, and a thrill, both of excitement and fear mixed with anger went through Dûrfîn. He opened his mouth to protest the use of the name, but Gandalf cut him off. "That's who you are, I'd recognise you anywhere, even as – changed – as you are. I believe your story of a Silmaril and Nazgûl. And also I believe that you have lost your memory. There are several things you have said and done tonight which are extremely unlike anything the Fëanor I knew would do.

"For reasons that I am willing to explain later, for time presses heavily on us, I need you to accompany me and Peregrin Took to Minas Tirith."

"Does Dûrfîn have a choice?"

"You can help us fight Sauron, or remain here and do little good."

"Then Dûrfîn will help. But he wants his sword back."

"Here it is," Gandalf offered the blade to him. He had apparently concealed it in his robes. "A good blade."

"Dûrfîn knows," He said as he followed the wizard out. "He was given it by an Elf who did not want him to die."

Outside waited two horses, one a bay and one a dazzling white. Perched precariously on the white one sat one of those tiny people that Dûrfîn had seen earlier, looking uncomfortable. Gandalf swung up behind him and motioned to Dûrfîn to take the other horse. Although the white one had no reins or saddle, Dûrfîn's mount was equipped with a light saddle, and he was glad for that as he climbed up. He doubted he could handle riding bareback like those Wood Elves did. He had never been great with animals.

Gandalf bid farewell to the people around him, and then clattered off. Dûrfîn kicked with his heels and followed him, out into the night.

They rode hard and fast, and Dûrfîn had no chance to ask Gandalf anything, he was too busy trying to keep up, and keep sight of the elusive white horse. Elves have good eyesight, and as a general rule white things show up well in the dark. But this beast was extremely hard to keep track of, so that in the end Dûrfîn found himself using his ears more than his eyes to tell where Gandalf was at any given moment. As he rode, Dûrfîn had time to think. Gandalf's naming him Fëanor did not mean anything surely. The last time Gandalf had seen Fëanor – if ever – must have been millennia ago! How could he possibly recognise him now?

But that moment when Legolas had insulted him . . . Accusing him of being Orc spawn! For that moment, that single moment when he had ridden on the power of his just anger, he had felt – something – stir within him for a glorious instant.

Not only then had he suddenly mastered the complexities of first versus third person in the complicated language of Westron, but thoughts had run through his head, thoughts articulated in speedy, angry Quenya. _How dare that minor Moriquendi lordling insult me? How dare he? Has he looked upon Light in even another's eyes?_

And then it was gone, and Dûrfîn was left floundering in the aftermath. If anything more confused than he had been since his wounds had been magically healed.

Had that been a flashback from his past? A memory incredibly distant, buried in the broken debris that had been his mind for a long time after Angband? He didn't know, couldn't say for sure, and that made him angry. He almost pounded his fist against the horse's neck, before remembering that it was a horse, and not an inanimate object like a table against which he could vent his anger.

On they rode, on and on until dawn, when Dûrfîn was more than ready for sleep, and his horse foamed at the lips. But Gandalf's white steed showed no sign of flagging. He did look a little tired, but no more than that.

To the west something glinted gold amongst the hills, and it caught both Dûrfîn's and the Hobbit's attention. "Edoras," Said Gandalf, and his voice was weary. "The king's golden hall."

A king of whom Dûrfîn was heartily sick. Théoden King had simply been one of the latest in a line of people who had ordered him about, pushing him this way and that, with hardly a rest and not a wash or a change of clothes, in fact Dûrfîn still carried some river mud on his boots. Gandalf was the latest, and although Dûrfîn was angry with the wizard too, he didn't feel safe giving public vent to his feelings. Gandalf was – a wizard. Even Elven Kings paused for thought before being angry with a wizard.

They stopped the headlong ride at last in a little hollow in the hills, and Dûrfîn slid from his horse, patting the poor beast on the shoulder as it sank wearily to the ground, too tired to eat.

The wizard and his little companion dismounted, the Hobbit appearing half asleep, and he curled into slumber in his cloak almost as soon as he touched the ground. Dûrfîn felt like behaving in a similar fashion, but he wanted answers to his questions from the wizard. He approached the white clad Istari. " _You promised to explain to me why you require my presence._ " He said, glad that he could speak in his mental language.

The wizard turned to look at him. His face seemed tired more than anything else. " _Yes, indeed I did. And I must hold to what I say. Very well. The Dark Lord has the Silmaril, you told me that. But Sauron is far wilier than his predecessor. Moringotto never bothered with lore, he simply broke. Sauron learned, and then broke. Thus, while Moringotto merely mounted the Silmarils in his crown, I fear that Sauron will see how his power can be increased, for as the One Ring – you know of it?_ "

" _How could I not?_ "

" _Very well. Like to the One Ring, the Silmarils each contain a part of the power of their creators. Both that of Yavanna Kementarí, who made the light, and yourself, who created the gems. They will answer to your hand more readily than to that of any other, for you set them in their current form. The Silmaril he has stolen will answer to Sauron, though unwillingly. But if you command it, it is my hope that it will answer to your word and not to the Dark Lord's._ "

" _But Morëfindë – I cannot simply command it to come to me! If I am who you say," He couldn't bring himself to actually say the name. "Then surely I – he would have done so when first they were stolen!_ "

" _You must be within sight of the Silmaril. Only then will the power between you be strong enough._ "

" _And since when did you learn so much about this?_ " Dûrfîn demanded.

Gandalf's eyes darkened and his brows drew together. " _Since I began researching ways to defeat the Dark Lord, over several thousand years ago!_ "

Dûrfîn found himself suppressing a yawn. Both horses were now slumbering as the sky brightened. He peremptorily thanked the wizard for his lucidity, then turned to sleep, curling up in his cloak on the tussocky grass. He was mentally and physically exhausted.

The next few days passed in a blur of riding. Each night they rode hard, each day they slept, exhausted. But Dûrfîn's horse was by far the most exhausted. He was concerned for the beast, it hurt his Elven heart to see the horse suffering. In the mornings, when they stopped to sleep, he took to finding clover for it before he slept himself. Dûrfîn might have a short temper and not mix well with others of his species but -. Or Dwarves for that matter. Or Hobbits. Come to think of it, he wasn't fond of the Rohirrim either, but that was beside the point. He did have the much vaunted Elven connection with animals, although he didn't take it as far as plants like the Teleri. And he did not like riding his horse so hard. He would have sung to sooth it, but his voice raised in song was probably more likely to make it wake up sharply, and possibly think Orcs were on the prowl.

On the evening of the third day, however, when they stopped at the end of the day Gandalf said to Dûrfîn " _I expect to reach Minas Tirith tomorrow._ "

" _Why should that concern me?_ " Dûrfîn asked, just wanting to go to sleep.

" _Because it would be well advised to attempt reaching your lost memories before we confront Denethor!_ " Said Gandalf. His tone was snappish, but only because he was tired too.

Dûrfîn was once again excited/afraid, but struggled to gather himself and hoped his outward appearance showed none of this. " _Then how do you intend to do so?_ "

" _Magically._ " He hefted his staff to illustrate.

Dûrfîn rubbed his forehead. He didn't really like the idea of the wizard messing around inside his head, but he also desperately needed to know who he was, if only to satisfy some vindictive part of him that wanted to prove Gandalf wrong.

" _Go ahead._ " He said, and the tip of the staff touched his forehead. Instantly, all connection with the physical world around him vanished.

A heavy stone wall hovered before his gaze, black and menacing, occasionally splattered with blood or some other dark substance. Dûrfîn shivered, from his head to his toes. This wall was – Angband. Thangorodrim loomed, dark and terrible, above the twisted nightmare fortress, unmistakeable, especially against that dark sky.

But there was one thing wrong. It was empty. All of it. No Wargs, no Orcs, no Balrogs, no Dragons . . . No nothing. But he could smell it! The blood and the fear and the industrial waste . . . Dûrfîn's stomach lurched with the recalled stenches, his gut roiling in remembered fear.

And then a voice beside him said "So this is how you remember it. It never looked so frightening to me – more pitiful."

Dûrfîn turned lightning fast, and saw that Gandalf stood beside him, old and white, holding to his staff that blazed with light. "Why bring Morëfindë here?!" Dûrfîn demanded angrily, bile rising in his throat.

"I didn't. You did. Here is where you lost yourself. You need to find what drove you mad to begin with."

"Go in – there?" He asked weakly. That was the place that filled his blackest nightmares.

Gandalf said nothing. Rather he closed his eyes, folded his arms, and vanished. Winked out of existence. Dûrfîn was alone.

Well. The Elf squared his shoulders. He was here now, and he was certainly not going to back down! His hand slid to his hip and he felt the reassuring pressure of the pommel of his blade. He had that, and Angband appeared to be deserted, although one could never be sure of anything about that place.

He took a deep breath, and stepped towards the great black gate of the fortress.

The huge and spiked metal gate opened to his heave, and he stepped into the courtyard, treading over black stained flagstones, his nostrils filled with the stench of the Warg kennels that lay off to his left. The smell of the gigantic wolves was overpowering, and it almost made him gag. But why were there no Wargs to see, although his keen nostrils picked up their smell in plenty?

His answer was provided when he heard a baying and a shouting of Orc voices from behind him. His heart racing, spinning around, he saw through the gaps in the gate that a vast army was approaching, an army of Orcs and Wargs and Balrogs, marching quickly towards their home. Standards flew above their heads, standards of different Orc war leaders and Balrogs.

And they were approaching at a frightening fast pace.


	9. Memory

Hide! That was it, he had to hide! Running full tilt across the courtyard, Dûrfîn reached the gate into the fortress proper. That was the place! Into the shadows within he dived, and began to run up the passage inside, taking the first opportunity to scramble up a ladder leaning against one of the walls and lie flat along a rafter. He had no idea why the ladder was there, but he hoped that it wasn't because of a problem in the rafters. They felt secure.

He lay prostrate on the cold stone, his eyes fixed on the ground below, although his vision was obscured by the smoking torches fixed at intervals along the passage, and by the general air of gloom and doom that filled the citadel from the tallest tower to the deepest pit.

It seemed an age that he lay there, heart hammering, before the doors grated open and a group of Orcs entered the hall, snarling amongst themselves. Dûrfîn's hands clutched tight to the rafter as he heard them grow nearer, their guttural voices and iron shod boots making enough noise to wake the dead. But they were speaking Quenya. It had been mauled by their ugly tongues, some words were almost unrecognisable, but that was what they were speaking!

Dûrfîn recalled being able to communicate with his captors when he had been imprisoned here, and that had probably been in Quenya, but trying to dredge memories laid down so long ago by a mind that had not only been partially off its rocker but with only memories of Angband for what a language had been called was not only hard going but nearly completely pointless as well. Dûrfîn didn't even try. Instead he paid attention to what the Orcs were saying.

"What I don't get is why the Master wants this Elf so much."

"You are stupid Orgbag! He wants this Elf for fun, of course!"

"You calling me stupid?"

"Yes!"

"Stop fighting you two! Leave it until you get back to your dens!" Snarled a third voice.

Now they came into his vision, and Dûrfîn saw a company of five Orcs marching raggedly up the hall. One was leading, while the other four carried an unconscious Elf. His armour looked like it had been fine, once, but now was sadly ruined, melted in long lines like a flaming whiplash had struck him. His black hair was matted with dark blood, and more blood flowed freely across his face from three horrible wounds, long wounds that exactly mirrored Dûrfîn's scars!

With an electric frisson running up and down his spine, Dûrfîn looked down and met the fiery green eyes of the Elf as they opened. His eyes! But there was something different. These eyes seemed to have a light within them, they almost glowed with it, pulsing beneath their green surfaces.

The Elf was not unconscious Dûrfîn saw now. He was more like paralysed by a malevolent spell or force, for although he was grievously wounded his eyes flamed with a taught anger, a determination to break loose and to kill the Orcs bearing him. Dûrfîn was sure that, had he been free, he could have done it, too.

But as their eyes locked, the Elf's blazing orbs widened in shock as he realised what he was looking at, and then his gaze seemed to become harder, as if he saw what his fate must inevitably be, if Dûrfîn was his future.

Dûrfîn considered striking then. Leaping down and fighting the Orcs. But he deliberated too long, for when he looked again they were far ahead. Determined not to be left behind, Dûrfîn slid down from his hiding place and followed them, noiseless as only an Elf or Halfling can be.

On they went, up the huge passageway, Dûrfîn sliding from shadow to shadow behind the Orcs, although this was more for his comfort than any real disguise. Born and bred in almost near darkness, Orcs could see far and well in the dark, and he knew, should they look back, that they would see him.

However they did not look back, rather continued on, carrying their prisoner and talking amongst themselves. Or rather grunting amongst themselves, really Orc voices were so horrible! They grated on his ears.

And now they reached a huge door, engraved with many dark and intricate designs. The lead Orc pounded upon it and stated the Orcs' business. "Delivering a prisoner to the Lord Melkor!" And the door grated open.

Within lay a huge chamber, dark and forbidding. And at the end, on a huge iron throne, sat a massive figure, clad in dark armour, with an iron crown upon his head, from which three white gems blazed forth light.

The light hurt Dûrfîn's head. It pounded into his eyes like bolts of fire, streaming in and in and hurting, until it felt as though he was a being made of the burning, terrible light. He closed his eyes to shut it out, but it didn't help. Pain pounded through his body, and he opened his mouth and screamed.

And that seemed to release everything. Angband was gone, Morgoth was gone, the Orcs were gone, the light was gone. Alone, an Elf hovered in his own mind and felt a torrent, a flood, a mudslide of impressions, feelings, sensations pile in onto him. And he bathed in them, and remembered. From the very beginning.

* * *

 _"Atto, I don't understand – why are you talking about Amili?" The twenty year old elfling – about seven years old if compared to a human – frowned up at his father._

 _Finwë sighed. "You need one, Curu."_

 _"I do not! I need you, that's all I ever needed! Amil knew I wouldn't need her! Why else wouldn't she come back?"_

 _"Because she was too tired."_

 _Hurt blossomed in the elfling's chest. "Then she didn't care about me?"_

 _"She did! Very much! But she - couldn't come back."_

 _"I don't want another Amil Atto! I don't!"_

* * *

 _Indis. Indis. How he hated her! Her stupid yellow hair, the way she tried to play with him as though he were a tiny child, the way she and Atto looked at each other when they thought he wasn't looking! Fëanor had simply given up talking to his father on the matter. Atto always gave him that look that meant "I'm sure you'll come round." and told him that he needed a mother._

 _And now she was going to give birth. Fëanor gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. His father had told him that he was going to have a little brother. Finwë was deliriously happy about the whole thing, and that only put the poor elfling in more of a quandary. He loved his Atto dearly, but hated this Indis person, who he refused to consider his father's wife. When he was horrible to Indis, he hurt his father, but all he wanted was to drive the interloper out of his life, to have it back like it used to be. And now, with a new baby around, how much more would that hurt his father if he was horrible to the elfling?_

 _No! He ground his teeth, keeping his anger strong. It was his father's fault that this had happened. His father had to see how bad Indis was! Then, at last, life would be proper again._

* * *

 _"Fëanáro?"_

 _"Hmm?" He emerged from a slight creative haze as he wondered if a painting of this beautiful valley would look better in a morning or evening light._

 _"Are we going to invite your siblings to Maitimo's begetting day?"_

 _Fëanor sat up sharply, and locked eyes with his beautiful wife. "Nerdanel," He said. "You know I hate all of my half-siblings. Why do you even suggest inviting them to our son's begetting day?"_

 _She shrugged. "He hasn't really got any friends his own age, and I've heard he had quite a few cousins by now."_

 _"Why hasn't he got any friends?" Fëanor demanded, certain that he could rectify the situation._

 _"Because none of your friends are remotely interested in children, and mine are – well, they don't approve of you, shall we say."_

 _"I don't care if people don't approve of me anyway," Fëanor said. "I don't approve of them back."_

 _She smiled. "That's my Fëanáro! But, can we invite some of your ah, relatives? You don't need to speak to them."_

 _"Oh, very well. Invite Fingolfin, he's the most bearable," Fëanor suddenly cheered up with an evil grin. "I can offer him some of my experimental new drink."_

 _"What, that stuff? It turns your throat into a forest fire!"_

 _"I know."_

* * *

 _Fëanor loved the expression on Fingolfin's face when he drank the flaming drink. Fingolfin had first drunk the stuff to punctuate a line in a conversation Fëanor was about as interested in as he was a squashed greenfly. But Fingolfin had made him struggle not to laugh. First he had looked shocked, then opened his mouth and breathed out heavily. "You like it?" Fëanor had enquired impishly._

 _Fingolfin, ever trying to be polite and certain he could mend the rift in the family if he tried, put on a forced smile "Yes."_

 _"Oh, you'll want some more then," Fëanor topped up Fingolfin's cup and then added "I thought it was a bit weak myself."_

 _He had noticed his son Maedhros – nine now and looking more like his mother every day – playing with Fingon, Fingolfin's son, but he knew that it would only be a passing friendship. As the elflings grew, Maedhros would come to see how awful Fingolfin and his children really were. It was only for the valid point Nerdanel made about the elfling needing a friend or two that Fëanor was - not happy, but ambivalent - for them to meet._

* * *

 _As the point of his sword hovered before his half-brother, Fëanor felt his anger bubbling over at this son of Indis who dared behave so! And this snake had the love of his father! It was almost too much to hold inside him, and it was only with great restraint that he spoke coldly and calmly to Fingolfin, warning him that he knew of his evil schemes. And Fingolfin said nothing. How dare he say nothing? He simply walked away._

 _When Fëanor got home, he said sharply to his eldest son "You are not to see that – your cousin anymore! I will not stand for my children to have anything to do with the line of Indis!"_

 _Maedhros had started to protest, but then closed his mouth when he saw the look in his father's eyes._

* * *

 _When Morgoth had Fëanor in his power, captured and badly wounded, the Dark Vala spent a great deal of time telling his captive all about what an idiot Fëanor was, etc, etc, to defy him, and all the horrible things he was going to do to him, etc, etc, etc, and then paused to give Fëanor time to gibber in terror or beg for mercy or something of the sort. Instead Fëanor said "I find your conversation slightly less stimulating than a dustbin's. Do continue."_

 _Morgoth had gone completely berserk, ordering all sorts of unpleasant things. Fëanor might have regretted what he said later, but he fully enjoyed it at the time. It had been something he had been saving for Findis, who got dreadfully upset by that sort of thing, but it was much more satisfying on Morgoth, all the way._

* * *

With a choke and gasp, he opened his eyes and saw Gandalf sitting beside him, apparently explaining what was happening to Pippin the Hobbit.

He coughed and choked, clearing the dust of centuries from his memories. He put a hand to his head, almost expecting it to feel larger to contain all those extra memories.

His eyes flicked over Gandalf and Pippin, both of whom were watching him. The Hobbit blurted "Are you really Fëanor?"

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the Hobbit. His gaze fixed on the wizard, and he said in clear Westron, with none of the troubles that had plagued him before "We reach Minas Tirith tomorrow, you said?"

"Yes."

"Good." He got to his feet, suddenly feeling no wish for sleep at all. It was – incredible, suddenly unlocking a part of himself that had been locked away for so long. His earlier fears about who he had been had completely faded away. Of course everything that he had done had been for a very good reason! He was complete now, as he had not been for a long time. But . . . Who was he? He was Fëanor Curufinwë Finwion, but he was Dûrfîn too. The two people were similar, but they were not the same. He shook his head. Not the same.


	10. Lost

**I'm sorry for taking so long to update, but I'm suffering from writer's block on this story at the moment, and I've just had a very busy few days, what with my brother coming to visit, getting a new pet, all that sort of thing.**

 **I do mean to finish this story though, and it will get done eventually! I'm more than half way through :D**

After a restless and dream filled sleep, Dûrfîn opened his eyes on a thick white fog. Even his sharp Elven eyes could hardly see beyond his nose. He waved an ineffectual hand before his face, but could hardly see it.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to go on today?" Asked Pippin in an anxious voice.

"We must reach Minas Tirith as soon as possible." Gandalf said tersely.

The High King of the Noldor said nothing. He climbed onto his horse and patted the poor beast.

Somewhere to his left Gandalf swung up onto Shadowfax and helped Pippin up to sit before him. Then he wheeled the horse around and began to gallop.

Fëanor followed him by the sound of his hooves. He only caught flashes of the white horse's rear and Gandalf's flapping cloak emerging ghostlike from the fog.

He could have closed his eyes to ride, for all the good his sight was doing him. Absently, Fëanor wondered if there was any way to see better in a mist like this. Perhaps, when he had the time, he could try to come up with something to improve the keenness of his sight enough to allow him to see through this?

Fëanor became so immersed in his thoughts, that he did not notice when he no longer caught glimpses of Gandalf and Shadowfax. He failed to notice when he no longer heard the white horse's hooves. He only noticed when he realised that the fog was lifting, and that his horse was merely ambling.

He looked around, turning his horse in a complete circle. Nothing. No sign of his companions. He listened, but he heard only the wind and his own horse's hooves.

Sliding from the beast's back, Dûrfîn scanned the area around. In the direction he had been going, he saw the black mountains of Mordor, and glistening, between him and them, lay the Anduin river.

Privately, Fëanor cursed. Why in Arda did he have to swear that stupid Oath? That was obviously the cause of his wander. Why else would he be going in this direction?

Fëanor turn to walk to his left, and sure enough he came up against a hard wall.

Thoughts passed through his head. Why did he want to go with Gandalf anyway? If what the wizard had told him was true, then all he needed to do to recover his property was command the Silmaril, when he was close enough. Truth to tell, Fëanor had never studied the lore of command, although he did know that his Silmarils were at least semi-sentient. Surely the stone would recognise its master?

Fëanor climbed onto his horse again. "East, again," He told the beast. "But no need for a rush. Regain your strength."

The horse began to walk. Towards the black mountains.

Two days passed. The horse recovered its strength. And Dûrfîn reached the Anduin river. On the other side lay the pleasant land of Ithilien. He would have to go carefully there. Both Men and Orcs prowled that land, and he didn't fancy running into either. But he appreciated the beauty of the place for a little while, before swimming across the river. He left his horse behind, telling the faithful beast to return home to its grasslands, and to run free. He thanked it for its services, and the horse nickered in answer.

On the other side he would have little need for a horse, and it would only make him more conspicuous. Dûrfîn's woodcraft took over now as he entered the wooded land of Ithilien.

Birds called. Streams chuckled and bubbled. The Elf found himself enjoying Ithilien. Although only as a pleasant place. Unlike the Wood Elves, he would never chose to make his home in such a place. Fëanor was more of a city Elf, he needed the things an Elven city could provide. Forges, metal, gems, that sort of thing. The things he loved to work with.

But Ithilien was pleasant enough.

The trees were broad and green leaved. Few dark and dour pines, and many bright deciduous hazels and beeches.

A rabbit watched him, and leapt away, startled. Dûrfîn's ears caught the sound that had frightened it. Someone, thinking they were moving silently in the bushes, but crashing about to his Elven ears.

Quickly he scrambled up a tree, banging one of his knees on a sticking out branch, and hid among the branches, watching.

A small, thin and gangly creature, with unhealthy grey skin and nearly naked, emerged from the bushes. In one of its hands it held a dead rabbit.

Fëanor watched as its nostrils dilated, sniffing. It had huge, luminous eyes that were, thankfully, not turned up to look at him.

It sniffed again, then spoke. "Nasty Elveses, gollum! We smells them, we does. We doesn't like nasty Elveses. Scare nice rabbitses away." It added mournfully.

Dûrfîn watched the creature with disgust. Extremely dirty, it had an Evil look in its eye and unpleasantly long, spidery fingers. With a deft twist, it broke the rabbit's head off and inserted it into its mouth.

As the creature chomped, it hopped away in a sort of half four legged run, half two legged lope. Fëanor watched it go, and swung down from his tree. Should he follow the creature? If he captured it, he could question it about the best way into Mordor . . .

He decided. He drew his sword, and crept after the Gollum creature.


	11. Ithilien

**I know this is a wimpily short chapter :(. My muse really has deserted me on this story!**

 **I'm sorry about such a tiny update after so long, and I say again that I do mean to finish this story, but unless my inspiration picks up again, it's going to take a long time. If anyone wants to take over writing the story, I'm fine with that, but I am going to finish it. It'll just take a long time.**

 **Anyway, I'd better stop trying to clock up the word count and let you get on with reading it!**

Bad things happen to Elves who are only paying attention to one thing. Following the loping gollum creature was hard work, straining even Dûrfîn's keen Elven senses. Despite an earlier crashing about, the creature had now gone annoyingly quiet. It certainly knew how to hide from an Elf! Dûrfîn was spending so much of his attention on it, that he completely failed to notice the Orcs coming up on him. Until he smelt them.

Instantly his attention was torn away from the gollum creature, and he tugged his sword from his scabbard, letting off a hissed curse in Quenya.

Bad things happen to Orcs who try to fight an Elf who almost took down a balrog. When they came bellowing at him out of the trees, Fëanor answered with a war cry in Quenya and joined battle with a will. Dûrfîn would rather avoid combat. Fëanor welcomed it.

Dancing left and right, striking with his sword, Fëanor crossed swords with his assailants, but something was worrying him. Their numbers. To begin with there had been three. But now that had doubled, and was looking ready to double again. Dûrfîn couldn't handle so many!

But there was nowhere to run, and while Dûrfîn believed in beating a hasty retreat, Fëanor very evidently did not.

He leapt back and parried, sweeping his sword in the way to the blades of two Orcs. But four more were coming at him, and although he parried two more, two blades sliced into his flesh.

He stepped back, placed his back against a tree. Now he could handle all the attacks they sent at him. He parried as best he could, his right side seeping blood.

Several lightning stabs killed one Orc and incapacitated another. Ten left. He almost laughed at such impossible odds, for one lone, wounded and scarred Elf to deal with. Strong, yes, but he had not the endurance of a Dwarf, and he was badly outnumbered. He had only his skill with a blade, and his determination.

Three more died, but the Elf had two more slight wounds to show for it. Fëanor's blade work was badly out of practice. He shouldn't have allowed them to touch him at all!

As he fought, a sudden idea came to him. He needed to get to Sauron, to get to his Silmaril. What better and easier way to see him than to let himself be captured by the Dark Lord's forces? Fëanor recalled when Morgoth had captured him. Nothing would do for that Dark Lord but to gloat over his prisoner. And if Sauron could use his Silmaril - _his Silmaril!_ \- to such effect as to reach out as far as he had, then surely the stone's creator could use it to destroy, or at least badly maim, the Dark Lord. A slight smile crept across his face, and he announced in Westron to the Orcs "My name is Fëanarò Curufinwë Finwion, and I surrender!"


	12. Mordor

**Sorry for taking so long, I hope you like the ending :)**

He was right. Sauron's Orcs knew his name, and Sauron remembered him. As - guarded by Nazgûl, no less - he ascended the tower of Barad Dûr, he felt almost physically sick. The Silmaril was closer than it had been since before he swore the Oath. The Oath. It screamed at him, tugged at him, urged him ceaselessly to run up the stairs two at a time, leap on Sauron and take his rightful property. And Fëanor wanted to do that. He wanted to do that so much that he could hardly tell the difference between what he wanted, and what the Oath wanted.

But Dûrfîn did not want that. Dûrfîn wanted to live, he wanted to do what he wanted to do, not what destiny and higher powers ordered. And that meant going back, back to when his greatest worry had been displacement as smith by a Dwarf. Dûrfîn had been almost asleep when Fëanor leapt into his suicide attempt to get his Silmaril back. Now Dûrfîn was awake, wide awake, but he was having a great deal of difficulty curbing his Fëanor desire to leap and run and reclaim his own, if only for a few seconds before death overtook him.

The last stairs. He ascended them, turned a corner, and the door was opened. And there, in a room walled with glass, stood Sauron, not looking in the least like he had appeared the last time the Elf had seen him. But as that had been in the First Age, thousands of years ago, it was hardly surprising. Sauron looked like an Elf, dark and he might have been fair, but Evil twisted his face. And upon his right hand lay a golden ring. And set in the ring blazed a stone of white fire. Fëanor's Silmaril.

Sauron smiled, and nodded his head. "I wondered if you still lived. Can you remember your own name, these days?"

"You have my Silmaril." Fëanor said.

"You have incredible powers of deduction!" Sauron said, and then waved a hand at his Nazgûl. "You may leave us. Go, aid your lord."

The Nazgûl hissed in answer, turned, and walked back down the stairs. Sauron held out his hand to the Elf. "Go on. Try and take it. It will burn you, Fëanor. You are a creature of Evil, as am I. Remember the kinslaying at Alqualondë? Remember the burning at Losgar? Do you want to know how many died by your hand?"

He could not feel guilt for those things. Fëanor felt no guilt. The Teleri had deliberately obstructed him, his brother had plotted to murder him! It had been only Fingolfin's fault that his followers perished in the Helcaraxë! Dûrfîn felt the anger of his memories, but he could feel no guilt. Fëanor, not Dûrfîn had done those things.

Dûrfîn smiled, his twisted, scarred face breaking the expression into a ghastly thing. "This hand, indeed, is Fëanor's," He held out his unblemished hand. "But this is Dûrfîn's. And Dûrfîn did not do those things."

With his knotted, stiff hand, he reached out and grasped the Silmaril. And he felt no pain.

Sauron let out a bestial howl and pulled back. At its master's command, the Silmaril began to burn him, his finger began to swell and change colour, and wrinkles appeared on his face. He leapt back, and snatched a blade from the wall into his hand. "Die!" He shouted, and thrust the sword towards Dûrfîn.

The Elf twisted aside, but only just. His eyes grazed the walls frantically, but there was no sign of a weapon. He leapt back from the advancing Dark Lord, and sent a call to the Silmaril, urging it to hurt Sauron, to withdraw its power from him, to burn him. Sauron cried out as his whole hand began to turn red, and he lunged once again at his enemy.

The Elf let out a cry of pain as Sauron struck his arm, only a glancing blow, but the Maia's great strength cut deep into his flesh and grazed the bone. Memories of an ancient battle with Gothmog danced before his eyes, and he knew with an awful certainty that there were only two outcomes to this - it could hardly be called a battle - confrontation. Either he died - or he died and took Sauron with him, separating him from his body and forcing him to grow another. There was no choice.

Together, Fëanor and Dûrfîn leapt towards Sauron, knocking him backwards. The Dark Lord let out a cry of shock, before he and his Elven assailant crashed into the glass wall and shattered it. Together they fell, a stream of glass tumbling around them. Sauron's sword was whipped from his grasp by an onrush of wind, and then they struck the ground. Discontinuity.

* * *

Frodo Baggins, stumbling across the plains or Gorgoroth, gave a sudden gasp. When Sam hurried to ask what was wrong, Frodo said "Something's happened, Sam! The Ring - it's as light as a feather!"

* * *

The guard at the gates of Mandos was most confused when two fëar from the same hröa turned up, asking for entrance. She had to ask for advice from Námo himself. The Lord of Mandos came to the gate and said "Let them both in. They are here under rather - special circumstances."

Dûrfîn asked him "Did we kill Sauron?"

Námo shook his head. "No, you killed his body. Frodo Baggins is the one who will kill his strength, and leave him with nothing but his malice."


	13. Note

Okay, as anyone whose looked at this story's summary recently may have noticed, I've picked up this story again and am editing it _heavily_. If you are interested, I will be posting the first chapter of the new and much better version in its own story on the 20th of September. Since I wrote the first version some time ago, my writing has improved quite a lot. The story isn't going to change, just the wording of it.

Thank you for reading my story, and this note!

AredhelWD


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